Go Home, To the Coast
by kidenagain
Summary: a series of unrelated stories revolving around California. ratings vary.
1. to the coast

Trading in his piece of shit Chevy - and she definitely_____was_ a piece of shit - still hurt. The girl had treated him good, they'd bonded or whatever, and okay, maybe Puck loved her a little. As much as any can love a truck, anyway. But traded her in he did. And with the truck and a few extra hundred he'd driven away with a_____slightly not as old _ Jeep Wrangler.

But the Jeep was running like new, guaranteed not to crap out on him - Puck even had Burt check it out for him, just to make sure. Which was exactly why his baby had to go. California was way too far away, and Puck needed something that would actually get him there. In one piece.

And the Jeep would be good for the warmth of Southern California. Open her up and let in the sun.

California was going to be good.

The best.

He had no doubt about it.

Maybe.

It didn't matter. Gut twisting, heart hammering in his chest, none of it mattered. He was still going. Had given away the goodbyes he could and held on tight to the ones he couldn't and all that was left was the highway, those endless, turning black roads that would carry him away to the coast. And things would be better, they'd be okay once he just ___got_ there.

It wasn't going to be scary.

He wasn't going to feel alone.

Puck didn't ___do_ lonely anyway.

And any minute now, any minute at all, he was going to pull out of the fucking gas station and get gone. Just as soon as he found the right album to play for his epic fuck you to Lima as he hit the road. Just as soon as he ran through the checklist in his head, making sure he had all his crap. Just as soon as his hands stopped shaking.

Puck stared down at his phone, zero messages. For the last three hours, every time he'd looked at it. Zero messages.

No new calls.

Not a single word from Finn in the three hours since he'd sent that stupid, stupid fucking text message.

___Last chance._

That was all it had said:___Last chance._ And even Puck wasn't completely sure what he was asking for. For Finn to come with him, for Finn to ask him to stay.

For him to tell Puck to go with him to New York.

Anything.

But three hours and zero messages.

Finn didn't give a fuck.

Puck closed his eyes, steadying his breathing. He'd have to go alone. He _could _ go alone. Nothing scared him, right? Nothing was scary to Puckzilla.

Except _this _ kind of fucking was. It was terrifying. Leaving his mother and sister, leaving Shelby and Beth, leaving everyone, every _thing. _

And for the first time he could remember, the first time in his life besides a few bumps, running towards something without knowing Finn had his back. It wasn't _right, _ nothing about it felt right.

But fuck it, he thought, jamming his foot down on the break and throwing the Jeep into gear. Fuck it, because it didn't matter. Peeling out of the parking lot, Puck turned the radio up. Lit a cigarette. Filtered through the things in his head, the things boiling in his veins, that sucked but he couldn't change. Letting them sift to the surface and then tucking them away, back where they couldn't fuck with him anymore.

He's only a little outside the city when he turns down the radio, suddenly tired. Somewhere behind him Finn is packing up boxes and suitcases, he's watching the gun glint off the engagement ring on Rachel's finger, he's getting in his car and driving east. And Puck is looking west. They used to be going in the same direction, they used to -

And he doesn't want to do this without Finn. Doesn't want to do anything without Finn, not now. Not really ever.

He's about to pull over - to punch something, to puke, to - he doesn't know, but his phone is vibrating. Grabbing it off the passenger seat, Puck held it tight in his hand, telling himself not to look.

Don't look.

Because it's probably Sarah crying at him, or Shelby reminding him to keep in touch, or, or -

It's no one else but Finn, named 'douchebag' in his phone, and all it says is: ___I don't know what to do. _

Months of saying no, no no no. No to pool cleaning, no to California, no to _Puck. _ Big fucking neon signs of rejection flashing in Puck's face, all his yeses saved for Rachel. For weddings and New York and being a fucking _actor. _

Finn Hudson, pod-person, moving to New York to follow his acting dreams.

Finn Hudson -

___What's your gut telling you? _Puck types back, finally pulling over.

_That I don't want you to leave without me._

Puck sighs, banging his head down against the steering wheel. It's only false hope, it's only ever false hope he tells himself. But if he goes, if he pulls back onto the highway and keeping driving, he'll never know. And he'll never, ever be able to move on.

As if he has a chance to anyway.

___Then don't let me._

It's a few minutes before Finn messages him back, and Puck slams the Jeep in reverse and backs off the highway, straight down an on-ramp.

___I'm packed,_ the text says, ___come pick me up before Rachel kills me._

They take turns driving, the Jeep opened up in the warm summer days and closed tight during the cold nights. Sometimes Finn sleeps, his face pressed against the window or the back of the seat and Puck lets himself reach over, his hand in his hair. When Finn drives, Puck can't bring himself to sleep, just watches him - singing and laughing and wondering what the _beach _ will smell like.

Puck doesn't know where they are going to live. Doesn't know anything - if there will really be work for them out there, if they'll get used to the heat, if if if. It's all ifs.

But the things he does know make up for it. That he's going to keep Finn happy, that it's going to be so good. And that when they hit Utah he's going to ask Finn how many beds they need to buy.

And if Finn lets him, if Puck is lucky enough, they'll only buy the one.


	2. no explosions

The first time they kiss there isn't any fanfare. Not really, anyway.

It's a slow build up between laundry duty and who forgot to pay the electric bill, caught somewhere in between. If there were fireworks with Quinn, if the world ceased to exist with Rachel, kissing Puck feels like falling into bed after a long day of work. Comfortable, easy – words like___finally _and ___relief._

There are no explosions. Time doesn't stop, it just keeps moving, Puck's lips gone from Finn's just as fast as they pressed against him. In the next breath he wonders what they should have for dinner, if the weather will be good enough to surf tomorrow. And Finn is caught frozen, just for a moment, a big goofy smile on his face until he says he thinks the rain is going to hold off a few more days.

Puck's hand is warm on the jut of Finn's shoulder blade, just resting there, as he leans across him to grab a glass from the dish drain. He smells like combination body and hair wash. Like the beach – sun and sand, saltwater and sweat – he smells like ___Puck__, _and Finn sways forward just a little into the heat of his body, breathing deeply.

And it's really that easy.

Later, both of them on opposite sides of the couch, Finn's long legs stretched across the coffee table, it's silent between them. Blushing right to the tips of his ears, Finn can feel Puck watching him, can almost hear the sound of him thinking over the noises that sneak in through the thrown-open windows. He's about to suggest something – a movie, to put the radio on, for Puck to play his guitar, ___anything_ – but he doesn't. Just bites his lip before opening his mouth to cram another handful of chips inside. And Puck just keeps staring.

And staring.

Thinking.

Which was something Finn had thought they could avoid. It had been coming, hadn't it? All these months since Finn followed him out to the coast, made a home on Puck's couch. It'd been creeping up on them with glances that lingered a little too long, knees pressed together under the table at restaurants. Had hit them like a sledgehammer when Finn had leaned forward, two weeks ago, and brushed sand off Puck's cheek with the pad of his thumb.

But still, Puck was thinking. And Finn was blushing.

And cramming more potato chips into his mouth.

Finally looking down at the empty bag in his hands, nothing else to distract him, Finn pulled his legs off the coffee table, shifting around, talking himself into standing. Going to the bathroom. Going outside. Going somewhere Puck's eyes wouldn't be on him.

He just needed to breath, just for a second. Just -

"You really don't remember?"

Surprised, Finn fell back against the couch with an 'oomph' sound. "What?"

"You've been freaking out quietly for the last few hours since I kissed you," Puck said, shrugging a little. "I was going to just wait to see how long it took before you exploded but, seriously, you don't remember?"

Finally looking at him, eyebrows knitted together in confusion, Finn made a face.

"Remember..."

"The first time I kissed you," Puck supplied, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, dude, it was like, three hours ago, I remember."

"No," Puck said, a ghost of a smile on his face. Shifting, he crowded closer to Finn, and oh God. There was that smell again. Finn swiped the palms of his hands over the soft, worn material of his cargo shorts. He wasn't nervous. There was nothing to be nervous about.

Nothing was surprising.

Except.

Puck was close enough Finn could feel his breath warm against his neck, and he said, "We'd just lost that stupid game and my mom was supposed to pick us up, remember?" Finn shook his head. "Coach was hitting on some chick by the bleachers and we were sitting in the outfield waiting, and you -." Puck stopped, laughing a little, said, "You were such a fucking goofy looking kid."

"Hey, fuck you," Finn said, elbowing Puck in the chest and laughing. "What about you? Thank God you grew into that hair style, dude."

Puck smiled at him, threading his fingers through his mohawk and bunching it to stand up more. "Yeah, well," he said. "Anyway, you were trying to make me feel better about getting the last out of the game. That stupid long hair of yours in your face and those dimples, shit, your smile was way too big for your face then."

Leaning away before Finn could elbow him again, Puck laughed even more. Then, Finn's arms resting safely against his sides again, moved in closer than before. Puck pressed a hand to Finn's cheek, turning his face around to catch his eye. "You really don't remember?"

Of course he remembered, in that way memories where sometimes dreams and dreams were memories, and it was just confusing sometimes. Puck's mouth pressed against his, how he tasted like bubblegum, Finn's hand on Puck's neck, the fingers of the other pulling at the grass. He'd never been sure if it had been real, if he's dreamed it up, if he'd just wanted it so bad his brain made it real.

"Finn?" Puck said, his fingers rubbing into the curve of his jaw.

"I remember," Finn said, closing his eyes. "You tasted like Big League bubblegum."

Puck sighed a little, relieved, and said, "It's just me. You don't have to freak out. No one cares here, man. No one is going to -."

Finn cut him off, wrapping an arm around Puck's shoulder and pulling them together. The first time Finn kissed him, all on his own, was a small, chaste kiss to Puck's neck. "I know," he said against his skin. "I'm not – this is what I want, Puck. I'm not scared or anything."

"Yeah?" Puck said, half wonder half surprise. Then, when Finn nodded, Puck's arms tightened around him, and he said, "Good." Holding on to Finn even tighter, Puck pulled him along as he moved back, lying down along the couch and letting Finn settle on top of him. "I want you to want this."

"I followed you across the country, right?" Finn said, looking down at him, a stupid half smile on his face. "So this is three? Four with the neck thing."

"That didn't count," Puck said, staring up at him, sliding his hands down Finn's back. "Three."

"Three," Finn said, grinning, leaning in to kiss him again.

The first time they kiss, there isn't any fanfare. Not the second, the third, or any of the times after that. But Finn figures, Puck solid and warm beneath him, his skin kissed by the California sun and Finn's own, eager lips, it's still better than anything else. Than everything else he's ever had.


	3. currency of leaves

The first time it's rough, maybe too rough, and they barely take off their clothes. Before Puck can catch his breath, Finn grabs his coat and is out the door, the crash of it closing behind him rattling through Puck's chest. The taste in his mouth lingers, no matter how many cigarettes he smokes, gargling with whiskey trying to wash it away. The sun rises and burns across the sky and sets again and it doesn't matter. Nothing - not the booze or time or anything - can chase away the feeling in his gut, the new itch in his fingertips.

The second time it's Finn stumbling in, red eyed, lost-looking. A look Puck is sure, no doubt, is on his face too. Because nothing is more confusing that this, whatever it is. Nothing is as big, hurts as bad; there's nothing Puck has ached for more, in such a long time. The second time it's wandering lips and gentle teeth, Finn's long fingers undoing each of Puck's shirt buttons in turn. It's okay, he says. Just slower this time and better, he whispers. Because that's how it is. They hurt each other and then fix each other and doesn't it feel right, for once?

And it does. And Puck hates it. Hates that he wants to kiss him so badly. That Finn smells like the Lima winter even in the California sun, that he's orange and yellow leaves and blanket forts and everything Puck believed he'd be too, someday. Hates the most how Finn still sees him with the same childish eyes and all Puck has ever done is let him down. Stilling Finn's hands with his own, Puck presses into him, asks with a broken voice why Finn's running lead to him.

"Because -," Finn murmurs, the tips of his ears, cheeks, right down to the hem of his t-shirt blushing, "I feel -. I'm not scared with you."

Inhaling deeply, his chest shaking, Puck grasps the nape of Finn's neck, pulling him closer, kissing his fevered skin. Me too, he thinks to say, but Finn already knows. Told him as much when he'd asked him to come with him. Had wanted him so badly to be there from the start, to make it better, to make it feel safe. A human safety net to fall into. Better late than never, Puck thinks, smoothing his hands down Finn's back and tugging at his shirt, smiling as he raises his arms and let's Puck pull it off.

Holding Finn again, his fingers tugging on his hair, Puck can't help but catalog the differences. Finn's shorter hair, how he looks older now, somehow. The weight lost from around his middle. And Puck hates each of them equally. Not for being but just because he hadn't been there to see it - proof that there had been time apart, that Finn had been off loving and laughing and getting his heart broken, and Puck hadn't been there with him.

"Come on," he says, leading Finn to the back of his apartment. To the mattress on the floor, a night stand and a lamp, and the only things Puck has to offer him, willing to let Finn have it all. "It's not much," he says, suddenly embarrassed. But Finn says it's great, that he likes the posters on the walls, and Puck smiles because he believes him. Because Finn doesn't care what Puck has, never had, and Puck's never really needed to impress him.

"You know I don't care about stuff like that," Finn says, sliding a warm hand up the back of Puck's shirt.

"I know," Puck nods, "it's just -."

"It's a bed," Finn grins. "And it was awesome and everything, but we already did it on the kitchen table."

Puck huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, and reaches for him, pulling Finn closer. Wrapping his arms around him, keeping him there, pressed against him, just for a minute. Because he can. And then, capturing his mouth once more with slow, careful kisses. One, two, and three, before moving in to taste him, wishing his own mouth didn't taste like cigarettes. But Finn sighs into him, gripping his shoulders, and they fall onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and speeding hearts. Finn's mouth on him, a leg pushing between Puck's thighs, his body heavy on top of him, is a dam breaking. It's a rush of years and looks, of Quinn and Rachel, of Beth, of video games and football practice and snowball fights. It's Finn calling him Noah, telling him it would be okay, he promised, that he was sure his dad still loved him. A thousand Saturday morning cartoons and over-microwaved pizza rolls to burn their tongues on and Finn, Finn, Finn the only real constant in his life. Who meant so much, so for long - who Puck needed so fundamentally - he had to break.

Finn sits back, his mouth red and chest heaving, to finish unbuttoning Puck's shirt, pushing it off of his shoulders and laughing as Puck wiggles out of it. "Shut up, stupid," Puck mumbles, dragging him down for another kiss. But Finn just laughs more, the sound of it ringing through Puck's apartment as he rolls them over.

Straddling Finn's thighs, Puck looks down at him, his palms sweating. Thinks about all the people he's been like this before, every single one of them. Santana, Brittany, Quinn, Lauren. Rich, stay-at-home moms. Dozens of other girls that blur together, one face, one body - just a memory of getting off with a cold, empty feeling in his chest. And none of it comes close to this, Finn somehow carving out a spot all for himself.

Puck bends over, kissing Finn's sternum, licking across his already sweaty skin to place another kiss at his shoulder.

Deft fingers unbutton and unzip Finn's jeans, moving off him just enough so Finn can lift his hips, letting Puck pull them down his hips, with his boxer briefs, kissing every new inch of skin he discovers until they're off completely and tossed to the side. This is how it should've been the first time, he knows. Not that crazed desperation from the day before, not so rough, so callous. But they can make up for it now, he figures, and tomorrow and the next day and -

"Goddamn it, Finn," Puck says, all his breath rushing out of him. He rest his hand on Finn's thigh, covering it and looks at him.

"It's okay," Finn says, blushing again but for a different reason. "It doesn't hurt anymore. And it's - I know it looks pretty ugly though."

"I don't care how it looks," Puck says carefully. "It's not ugly, you just -." Stroking his thumb over the scar, Puck moves in to press their mouths together again, Finn craning up to meet him, then kisses his thigh. "No more guns, alright?"

"What if there's a zombie outbreak?" Finn smiles, smoothing a hand up and down Puck's back. "I'm going to need a gun."

"Lost your privileges, man," Puck shakes his head. "It's all baseball bat for you."

Finn rolls his eyes and draws Puck in so they're flush against each other. "Even the Facebook guy got a gun in Zombieland."

"When you stop shooting yourself in the thigh," Puck says between kisses, "then you can have a gun. "

"Alright," Finn sighs dramatically, half laughing. "Fine."

Holding himself up with a hand to the mattress, Puck opens his jeans, pushing them down and then kicking them away. Settling back between Finn's legs, Puck hoists his injured thigh up, holding on. Kissing him until his mouth feels raw, until everything feels open and vulnerable and finding he's okay with it. It's okay. Because it's exactly what they need, what they both deserve. And when the sun goes down a little more, both of them a little more breathless, and Finn finally pushes into him, Puck buries his face in the crook of Finn's shoulder and digs his fingers into his back and holds on.

Knowing Finn will hear what he's saying when he moves to meet his thrusts. That between every pant and moan are a thousand words, each new one as important as the last, and that Finn can read them across his sweat-soaked skin and taste them in his mouth, feel each syllable with every touch of Puck's greedy hands. And when Finn comes, shaking and groaning, calling out Puck's name, he holds him tighter, rocking both of them through it, Finn's heart beating wildly against his own. Still panting, nearly trembling, Finn reaches between them and touches Puck until he follows, his mouth against Finn's neck as he gasps.

The sun is gone completely, and has been for a while, when Finn collapses on the bed next to him, hot like a furnace but scooting closer, wrapping his arms around Puck's chest and laying his head on his shoulder. Breathing deeply, a steady rise and fall until Puck's body matches the rhythm of it. Puck gathers him closer, as close as he can, pressing his cheek to the top of Finn's head, hand carding through his hair.

"Are you okay?" Finn asks, his fingers sliding up and down Puck's flank. "That was - and you never -."

"I'm good," Puck says. "I'm really fucking good." Puck finds Finn's hand on his side, threads their fingers together, feeling stupid and sappy and not caring. "Yesterday, when we - you were alright?"

Finn laughs then, nodding. "Yeah. I was fine. With the sex, anyway. When I left I spent all night and all day today freaking out because, well, you're a dude. And you're Puck, and I didn't -. But I was fine."

"You're not freaking out now," Puck says.

"No," Finn says slowly then kisses Puck's chest. "This feels... right. Right? I mean, there's tons of stuff to think and talk about and to figure out. But I wanna be here with you. Like this."

"Yeah it feels right." Throwing one of his legs over Finn's, Puck rolls them over again until he's half on top of Finn, his face hidden between Finn's and the pillows. "You're the only thing that ever felt right to me."

And it's true. And fucking scary. But Finn should hear it, he knows.

Fingers now mapping the bumps of Puck's spine, Finn says, "Guess what, dude?" Puck grunts, too tired and embarrassed to do anything else, and Finn laughs, "We just confirmed gayed your bed."

"Shut up, asshole," Puck says, smiling.


End file.
